


Some Hunters are Still Boys at Heart

by waywardrenegade



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Boys Being Boys, Brothers, Gen, Minor Swearing, being an adult doesn't mean not having fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 21:53:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardrenegade/pseuds/waywardrenegade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They might have been “adults”, but they were still brothers, always would be no matter what, and everyone knows boys will be boys after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Hunters are Still Boys at Heart

It was the end of November, a bitter chill in the air lingering like a pungent perfume. Tiny flecks of snow were threatening to stick to the already bleak landscape of Huntingburg, Indiana. The branches of the few scrawny maple trees outside the Wayside Motel were like forlorn limbs reaching skyward. It was both eerie and haunting, in the way that a cemetery at midnight might be if you weren’t a Winchester.

Currently, Sam Winchester was gazing at the swollen clouds with a pirate smile stretching his face goofily. He resembled a rogue cartoon character, all floppy hair, worn cargo jacket, and ridiculous stature.

Sam daringly let his tongue slip past his full lips in the hope of catching a few flakes; it was a childish thing to do, Sam knew that, but he couldn’t resist. He’d never really gotten to be a child, despite Dean’s best efforts. He recalled the time he and Dean had left yet another dingy motel room, against John’s strict orders, and went to the rusty playground a couple blocks over. Dean had told Sam to sit on the swing set and had started pushing him, as the younger boy laughed unreservedly. It’d ended with the brittle chain snapping, Sam hitting the ground with a thud, and Dean gently picking bits of gravel out of the cuts on Sam’s skinned and bloodied knees. The bottle of Jack sitting faithfully on the bedside table was the only antiseptic the boys knew. However, the absence of a real childhood wasn’t for a lack of Dean’s trying though.

Dean pulled the motel door closed behind him quietly, simultaneously gathering the worn leather of his jacket around himself. He moved swiftly, muttering a mantra under his breath, something along the lines of, “Damnit, don’t turn around. Do _not_ turn around, moose.”

In spite of the biting cold, Dean scraped up a liberal handful of wet snow off the Impala’s windshield. It stung a bit, but Dean brushed aside the temporary pain, knowing the end result would be worth it. His quick, tough hunter’s hands packed the slush into a tight ball, compacting it as much as possible. He knew from experience that this step was crucial.

Taking a half step forward on his left leg, Dean wound up his arm as if he were a Major League pitcher and this was the World Series, before letting the snowball launch at his brother’s head. Just before it collided against the back of Sam’s skull, Dean yelled, “Hey, bitch!”

Sam turned to look at him hurriedly, his expression equal parts of panic and determination. It was the look of a concerned brother ready to protect and defend what little family he had left without hesitation. Dean almost felt guilty for a minute. _Almost._

 Sam’s face took the hit square on, and Dean let out a raucous hoot of laughter that echoed off the crumbling brick walls of the motel courtyard. It was cut short though when he saw the steady drip of crimson, like the leak of an errant faucet, coming from Sam’s nose.

“Shit, Sam. I’m sorry,” he mumbled awkwardly, patting Sam’s shoulder in an effort to display sincerity. In reality, he was valiantly making an effort not to make a smart ass remark about it being past time for Sam to learn to stop blocking assaults with his face.

Sam shook his head quickly, much like a dog might, miniature droplets of water flying from his shaggy hair, and he wiped away the smear of blood absently. It stood in stark contrast to the pale skin on the back of his hand, and Dean couldn’t help but think how _wrong_ it still was to see blood on his younger brother’s flesh. The sight almost made him sick before he pulled himself back together.

“S’okay, jerk,” Sam replied offhand while shoving a generous palmful of ice down the back of Dean’s jacket. When one took into consideration that Sam’s hands were roughly the size of a couple of pie tins, one might understand the, “Son of a bitch!” Dean responded with.

“I’m going to research this spirit some more. Try to behave, okay?” Sam grinned as he said it, as if he couldn’t control his own expressions. Knowing how often his features rearranged themselves into the trademark “Sam Winchester Bitchface”, Dean was willing to bet he probably couldn’t.

Dean chuckled lowly, the resulting vibration rattling his ribs reassuringly, as he watched Sam stride back into their room, long legs covering the distance in a nanosecond. They might have been “adults”, but they were still brothers, always would be no matter what, and everyone knows boys will be boys after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a random, fluffy idea :)  
> Please let me know a) what you think and b) if there is anything that I can improve!


End file.
